2013.10.14 - The Hatter's Party
It would be nice if something made sense for a change. That is a common thought that recurs through people's minds in this wonderful city when the variegated and colorful men and women in tights decide to cause trouble for the people of Metropolis. Fortunately for them, other, nicer (sometimes) people in tights often come along to stop them from carrying on. This is one of those stories. Listen, listen closely as the scene opens on The Promenade, a rather new addition to this most fashionable of districts. Specialty shops are nothing new in Metropolis, but an entire open-air market dedicate to the intricacies and tastes of the lovers of tea? Now that's novelty. (Incidentally, it is rather unfortunate for the poor lovers of tea that they have never been bestowed with a word which grants some legitimacy and prestige to their tasty delicacy. Wine afficionados get to be called 'oneophiles', those who love cheese are happy to be called 'turophiles', and even tree-huggers get to tack 'dendrophile' to their verdant CV. But tea lovers? They get the short end of the teapot. This is patently unfair, and there ought to be a law about it.) The market is set up in what was until recently an empty lot for development, vacated by a business which unfortunately went bankrupt. The savy owners of the shop decide to bring a little of the country fair feel to the metropolis with its tents, quaint stalls with individual seller, but without anything so distasteful as dirt or, you know, anything else from the countryside. Very Metropolis. Keith is walking towards The Promenade, taking Patrick along for the ride. "I heard they've got some very rare orange blossom teas... and I just have to try it." Sif would like some tea. Right? The open air market seems to be just the place to find something nice and floral and calming and relaxing... and maybe something that will help lull two energetic bundles of Asgardian joy to sleep.... something that isn't mead, because Sif and the healer's assistant have both put their feet down on Thor giving the twins mead in their bottles. (Really, there ought to be a law!) Dressed to 'blend', the Thunderer is just another tall blonde and built in a purple Minnesota Vikings t-shirt and khaki cargo shorts. Brown hiking boots on his feet, a rugged black backpack on his back, and his long hair tied back in a sloppy ponytail that he probably did himself complete the 'Hey! I'm not the God of Thunder' look. For some people it is better that life does not make sense. Take Patrick, the last time his life made sense he was an experamental clone programed by a clandestine government project used to spy on and one day take down Superheroes. For him, a life that does not make any sense at all has become a fairly good thing. "Hmm, hoping for some good green tea myself, maybe a jasmine if they have one that is fresh." Walking along with his purple feline friend the auburn haired young man is apparently dressed in jeans and a red and blue t-shirt with a white star on the chest that might be a little too tight on him and a pair of horn rimmed glasses that look just a little...off being worn by a guy who other than them has a whole look that screams jock. Monet is not a lover of tea. To say that she loves tea is to suggest that she has something emotionally invested in the concept. Monet appreciates tea. It has been a part of her life since she was a child. It has meaning, both for her and for the people she associates with. It is a shared language. It pays to be well versed. The Monegasque woman has already intimidated the owner of the stall she is visiting. She does not stand out in a crowd, save for the ways that appearance-conscious people typically stand out. Her outfit is too plain for her: a faded sports sweatshirt, unused for sports, with TEAM across the front and a pair of jeans that are eager to tell just how slender her legs are. Her heels are black and wicked. Monet raises a bag in front of her impassive, all-consuming sunglasses. The stallkeeper sweats. She lowers it back into the sample tray and turns her head to indicate that she is looking at him now. He smiles. She walks away. "Oh wow... I had no idea it'd be this, er, specialized." If Monet and Thor do not stand out in the crowd, Keith unfortunately does in a way that he can't help it by virtue of being A)feline and covered in fur and B)as purple as the day is long. Time has dulled the edge of self-consciousness, however, and he walks through the market without paying much attention at the looks he gets. He's had some public exposure since his career started, so some people may know who he is... or at least they don't assume he's here to eat their souls. He walks not too far away from Thor, not noticing him in his zeal to find a stall that does not have a large crowd in front of it, and ends up sliding up right next to the stall Monet vacates. "Show me your orange teas!" he says with a wide Cheshire grin. The poor stallkeeper, having already been subjected to Monet's stare, wonders if this is going to be one of those days. It is, in fact. Those who have a certain supernatural sensitivity might sense a certain 'je ne se quois'... a strange feeling in the air, but only in passing. Nothing alarming. At least, nothing yet. A bright purple and red stall, however, is unveiled by a movement of the crowds. Was it there before? Who knows, there are too many people. But the man at the stall- tall, lanky and dressed in a bright orange coat stands there grinning all too widely. His white fly-away hair swaying briefly in the breeze. "Bah, humbug!" he says in a thick, syrupy voice that manages to carry across the crowd. "You call this a tea fair? It's all piddle. Swill." Thor double takes at the sight of purple cat. And a huge smile blooms across his face. Assuming that odd tickle of magic in the air is his friend, Thor pays it no mind as he moves to Vorpal's side and reaches out to pull the feline into a hug. Because this is Thor and even though he dressed to blend in he really never expects NOT to go unnoticed. Also, this is his friend! Of course he's going to greet his friend with warmth and joy and zeal! "Keith! My friend. How good it is to see thee," Thor booms pleasantly in the most Thor-like way possible. Read: All-Tongue and thunderous. Patrick could feel pity for the man that is now faced with the Cheshire cat grin. Maybe. If he actually felt pitty for people. Instead he moves along a little to that next stall over since the one Keith gravitated too seems a bit swamped. That, and while he does not have the slightest bit of sensativity to the supernatural he does have the Spider-Family luck when it comes to ending up in the wrong place at the wrong time. "Oh? If what they have to offer is just swill then what fine bits of dried leaves do you have to offer?" He offers to the man while only breifly breaking eye contact to look at Thor as he booms out a greeting. Who would notice a purple anthropomorphic cat? Not Monet. That would be needlessly impolite. Mutants and metahumans suffering from eccentric appearances deserve lives furnished with the same respect offered to those who are not visually unusual. It is also probably not worth her time. Monet moves to the next stall. The fact that its keeper is yelling about tea quality is merely local flavor. Local flavor should be enjoyed as background, not subject. She thumbs through a display, ignoring the owner and the other customers present, silently judging the tea and perhaps the people. Something that may or may not be apparent to our faithful protagonists is the fact that some plump maids have been, for a few minutes now, been distributing tea served in exquisite porcelain cups and saucers. The smell is intoxicating. "Why... young man..." the man says, gesturing to the maids distributing tea, "I have brought generous amounts of our own little preparation for tasting. I think you will say it is... quite a trip." His smile gets wider. If that's even possible. "Have a taste, please. It is a transporting experience." All around the market, people are starting to remark on how delicious the taste is, how unusual.. what texture and flavor! These are serious tea-people, I keep telling you. "And if you ha--GAH! Thor!" Keith says, startled as Thor pulls him into a hug. He hugs Thor back and laughs, trying not to get squished into purple jelly. "It's good to see you, my friend. I didn't think you'd be at a tea market of all places!" Some of the people, especially those who have been tasting the tea for a while, start to grow oddly quiet. Their conversation stops and they simply just stare at each other. "I am in search of something for Sif and the twins," replies the Thunderer, setting Keith back down on his feet and then turning that bright summer-sun smile upon his friend Patrick. "I saw this whilst I was flying and did think to myself: Why, Thor! Thou must indeed come to see if something delightful can be found, and do not forget as thou so often does to bring thy Midgardian wallet with its Midgardian currency!" Thor offers with a robust laugh, not at all seeming to notice what is happening around him for the moment. Maybe the odd effect isn't dangerous to the world yet. "And so I have! And so here I stand! It is a joy to see thee and thy friend," Thor says, blue eyes on Patrick, waiting for introductions. Oblivious Thor is Oblivious. Patrick picks up the tea offered and holds it under his nose for just a second taking a sniff. He is not hte most trusting type, which is why he is taking a second to smell and use the incredibly technologically advanced suit he is wearing to look for things that might make him not want to try the tea. Nothing is showing up a chemical red flag, but there is something about the seller that is making the Spider senses that Pat does not have tingle. After a second he decides it is the smile, he has only seen a smile like that twice before. Once on the Joker and the other time on...hmmm. "Keith!" He says suddenly turning in the direction of the purple haired feline. "Come over here and tell me what you think of the smell of this tea...and bring Thor too!" Either this is going to prove his paranoia is unfounded, like it is 8 out of 10 times, or set really interesting things in motion. A plump maid offers tea to Monet. The impenetrable shield of her sunglasses reflects these things in order: the cup and saucer, a plump face, the rest of the plump maids, and then the plump face again. Her lips curl. "No, thank you." Drinking tea while buying tea is an amateur move. It taints your sense of smell. You might as well be letting the shopkeeper force you into an exclusive contract. Also, anyone with a fleet of plump maids is creepy. The thing about 2 out of 10 times is that they happen every 1 out of 5 times. It's true. Look it up. I've got facts--- like, for example: Did you know that studies show that birthdays are good for you? It is proven that the people who have the most of them tend to live longer. And for some, unbirthdays are even better. "Oh, Thor... this is, um... my fiance, Patrick..." when Pat calls Keith's attention to something strange going on, the cat frowns and walks over to the stall, tilting his head at Thor to follow him. Only, there is no time to do much, as sudenly holes start opening up on the floor. Big holes. Deep holes. Deep holes into which people start falling, slowy and gently as leaves on the wind-- to be specific, those who have taken part of the 'special' tea start falling through the holes. The problem is that, right now, that makes it about two thirds of the entire crow in the market. Patrick, Thor, Keith and Monet are lucky for having arrived late or, in Monet's case, for being too much of a connoisseur. "...Ah, now that's more like it!" The man with the flyaway hair says, clapping his hands together. He reaches under his stall and takes out a tall, slightly battered green felt top hat. This he puts on his head and gives a beatific smile as he sees the enthralled customers slowly sinking down. Fiance....? Thor's smile slips as the realization of Keith's choice... well, he had said it didn't matter, right? Thor brings the smile back. It is a touch forced, but he follows along easily and without any further hesitations. That is, until people start falling into holes. Blue eyes widen and Thor looks about in growing concern. "There is trouble afoot!" declares the Thunderer as he slips the backpack off and yanks it open. Patrick is ready to keep up the pretense of things as he calls over his fiance, giving Thor a smile that probably looks a whole lot like one that Captain America might give. That is, until holes stuart opening up in the ground. He spares a look at the the tea sales man, and throws the tea he had been given at the man, or more the cup at his hat in such a way that he intends to knock it from his head and spill the tea on the man. "Keith, you get hte crazy man I will get people out." That said Patrick starts to grab the slowly floating/falling people near him and pushing them to safty away from holes and moving through the crowd trying to get people to safety with a surprising turn of speed and skill of movement. Monet continues thumbing through the tea bags. Proving that she really is paying attention, she looks up when the first hole opens. She is silent as the crowd is culled. Then, she is gone. The teen reappears with a rush of displaced air, holding the old man by the collar of his orange coat. Her sunglasses are gone and her eyes are fierce. "Don't bother explaining. I have it." Her telepathic probe is practiced and sharp, honed in study of the walled minds of Jean Grey and the Pale Man. We're all mad here. At least, that's how it will feel to Monet. As the man's hat is knocked off and tea splatters all over him, he lets out a mild protest of "How Rud--" before he's being dangled by the striking Monegasque. As her probe descends into the depths of the peculiar little man's mind, however, what she finds is something that may or may not be familiar to her. This is not a human mind. It is not even remotely close to a human mind. If minds could be identified by colors, this would be an angry red-purple, throbbing and barely contained with such amount of lunacy, such a surge of pure insanity that it is simply horrifying. No human being could have a mind like this, no being from this world could-- it is a madness, and insanity that transcends dimensions. And there is something corrupting and unsettling about it. The man's wide blue eyes, surrounding by sickly, yellowish whites, stare at Monet, his grin remains fixed in place. "So kind of you to join us for tea!" Around them, pandemonium breaks out as the army of little plump maids becomes... something else entirely. Some of them become clearly-defined monsters, while others become something in-between, as if created by some mad jigsaw artist who decided to play at gene splicing. There are tentacles, there are claws, some are simply a profusion of limbs everywhere that grab, pull and scratch. That's when the stalls start to come alive, as well. All around them the previously harmless and charming stalls, a throwback to the picturesque lifestyle of the country fair with bright colors (and expensive materials cleverly disguised as inexpensive materials, because that's 'chic'), suddenly seem to acquire the ability for locomotion and start, for lack of a better word, to 'eat' those innocents who have not imbibed the tea and are not sinking but, in fact, runnig away. The stalls open up and clamp down on them, not hurting them but trapping them in cages of wood, resilient fabric and a ton of tea. From his backpack, Thor draws Mjolnir. (Because carrying it in a backpack instead of on his belt makes it easier to blend in?) He hefts the weapon. There is a crack of thunder and a flash of lightning which bolts down and strikes the God, engulfing him fully. Thor stands in his armor and cape, winged helm upon his head. It's like an anime henshin, for reals! His eyes scan over the area and he moves to engage the nearest monster. "FOUL BEASTS! Thou shalt know the wrath of Thor!" Or something. Never get between a husband and his quest for a gift for wife and children. FOR SHOPPING! Monet is a clever woman. She has experience with people who have lived in a telepathic world, people with telepathic computers and telepathic security systems and telepathic traps. She protects herself. The man's mind is all teeth-thoughts and claw-feelings, but she is not personally there. Monet is just looking. And then she isn't. Tossing the man backward, the young mutant turns to the greater pandemonium with a set jaw. She does not shield her eyes when thunder strikes; she smelled the ozone before it happened and knew it would not hit her. Thor, himself, is a surprise. She takes it well, flying forward and past the Asgardian, bringing her surprising strength to bear against a roiling mass of plump limbs grasping at an ex-shopper. Slender fists means greater impact at a smaller contact area. It is hard for Keith to say what surprises him the most. He's used to being the strangest creature around, but this? This makes him look perfectly mundane. It takes him a little time to react, however, because the man's felt hat had triggered a thought in his mind, and it paralyzes him for a couple of seconds. It's long enough for a centipede-maid to wrap several limbs around him, which draws him out of his horrified reverie. The Cheshire cat teleports out of her grasp and he appears by one of the holes, extending a hand to one of the slowly-sinking women. She doesn't take his hand, in her catatonic state, so he starts to pull her out by the shoulders. "Thor, we need to save these peop---" and suddenly the woman is fighting against the limbed monstrosity. ~Who is she?~ ~You can find out later when you're not in the middle of an acid trip~ For its part, the monster grapples with Monet admirably, but it is no match for the woman's own powers. Noticing that there is an active resistance, the monsters start beelining for Monet and Keith. "I wish you wouldn't be so obtuse." The little man remarks, getting to his feet after being tossed. He dusts himself off with a modicum of decorum and takes out a large pocket watch from his vest. "It'll delay everything, and we're already two days late as it is." There is something unusual about the little man. Well, more unusual than has been observed to this point. Even those who are not mystically aware will be able to sense the fact that reality simply *bends* in the man's immediate vicinity. Within the very tight event horizon that surrounds him, incredible things appear and disappear in the blink of an eye, too unbelievable to last in this dimension for long. But a few things do sneak through and maintain cohesion-- winger creatures of pure absurdity and enormous wingspans, flying towards the God of Thunder. Beware the Jubjub Bird. "Aye!" Thor replies to Keith's half completed sentence. He bashes a monster away with his hammer, then kneels to reach down into a hole to grab a sinking person. He hooks his elbow around the upper part of the ribcage and then stands, seeking to bring the person up with him. Only for his eyes to lift and spy the jubjub bird. "Odin's Beard! What in the Nine Realms is this!?" Thor blurts out while seeking to complete the rise to his feet, body twisting as he goes so as to present his unmortaled shoulder tot he bird. Let the beast hit him. Better him that a human! Monet swings heavily toward the beast's center of mass--it retaliates with lashing arms--and she fades backward, fists blurring to meet every attack. As the thing tries to reorient itself to flow over Monet and bring more of its arms to bear, she grabs at it and, whirling around once, tosses it into the advancing crowd. She glares imperiously at Keith. Her voice is in his head. Then, the woman in the TEAM sweater glides upward, spreading her hands before her with palms down. Simultaneously, the people kidnapped by tea rise up, yanked into the air with more urgency than whatever lunacy guided them before. Monet swings heavily toward the beast's center of mass--it retaliates with lashing arms--and she fades backward, fists blurring to meet every attack. As the thing tries to reorient itself to flow over Monet and bring more of its arms to bear, she grabs at it and, whirling around once, tosses it into the advancing crowd. She glares imperiously at Keith. Her voice is in his head. |"Delay them. I will save these people more quickly."| Then, the woman in the TEAM sweater glides upward, spreading her hands before her with palms down. Simultaneously, the people kidnapped by tea rise up, yanked into the air with more urgency than whatever lunacy guided them before. "Delay them, she says," Keith mutters, "Sure, I'll just grab my Wonder Tiara and Lasso." Thor is powerful, and obviously so is Monet. This leaves the cheshire cat feeling decidedly under-powered and ill-equipped. But there are innocent lives at stake, and time is running out. The cat's eyes glow purple for a second, and suddenly the entire field is covered in clones of Keith (a.k.a Vorpal), running at monsters and attacking them. To the observant eye, it is clear that the clones' attacks don't hit home. They're all illusions, but the hordes apparently cannot tell which is real and which is fantasy, which leads into a mad goose chase where some chase illusions, others try to intercept attacks that don't land, and many more end up hitting each other in pursuit of an illusory attacker. This pandemonium won't last, as there is only a limited number of permutations before they all realize that all Keiths except the one standing still are not real. But this leaves Monet free to help the sinking people. Which leaves Thor and the JubJub Bird. As the bird swipes at Thor's shoulder, its talons swipe at the blond god. These are not normal talons, for they pierce immortal flesh... and they -hurt-. Still, a god is a god, and the wound begins to heal almost immediately, almost as if reality finds the nature of the claws too abhorrent to uphold it for long. But the pain was oh so very real. The bird changes direction and bears back, talons spread as it dives towards Thor again, coming for more blood. "That was not part of the plan!" the little man says, rushing over to the stall and picking up his hat. "Not part of the plan at all!" He doesn't put his hat back on, though, but reaches into it. A few seconds later he pulls out a teapot which he then rolls across the ground until it stops below Monet. And then it starts to grow quickly. In a few seconds it is as tall as a stall, and then it keeps growing, and growing... Real pain is not something Thor feels often for upon Midgard there is little that can truly injure the God of Thunder. Thor can't hold back the angry cry brought on by pain. 'Sif is going to be most put out,' is all Thor's mind can think of as bright red blood stains his polished armor and darkened his crimson cape. Mjolnir is twirled in his right hand, his eyes glow electric blue, and Thor braces for the jubjub's attack. He'll time this one better. He'll bring Mjolnir and lightning both down upon this vile winged creature. And then he'll return to freeing people. Weren't there vendor stalls eating innocents? Though Monet cannot telekinetically rearrange molecules or assemble a circuit board, she can definitely lift, sort, and place people. The floating figures fly into the sky, whirl in a mess until they are in an orderly line, and are then set down on the roof of a nearby building. There is a teapot underneath her. The mutant drifts away, sparing glances at Thor and Keith. |"I recommend you vacate the area,"| she telepathically prompts Vorpal. |"They look grabby."| Monet, meanwhile, circles around to find the little old man. She doesn't have heat vision, but she sure looks like she does. The little man is looking at Monet with the most mischievous of smiles. It's as if this is all but a little, innocent prank. The lid of the enormous teapot flies off into the air at tremendous speed, missing Monet by a wide margin... but that wasn't the actual attack. What comes afterwards- an enormous, furred limb with claws-- is. The enormous dormouse, or the slavering monstrous equivalent of one, tries to make a grab for Monet as it leaps out of the teapot. It movest faster than it has a right to move, and it is frighteningly strong as well. "You woke him up. Tut tut." The hatter says, putting on his hat and wagging a finger at Monet with a devious grin. The way he figures, probably, is that when Monet is taken care of, he can go back to the simple pleasures of life, such as stuffing catatonic people down random holes in the ground. The JubJub Bird does not seem to survive the impact. Rather, it shatters like glass (bleeding glass, really) and falls about the God of Thunder in bits and pieces. "Good job, Tho---ack!" Keith's victory shout is short lived, as the army of former maids moves towards the purple feline like a locomotive, figuring him out for the Real Deal™. The Cheshire cat leaps into the air and summons his constructs-- purple anvils in the air which drop indiscriminately among the advancing throng, pinning several down under their weight before disappearing and reappearing back up to fall again, and again. The ones that come close to him, he tries to fight with his own set of claws and martial arts expertise. Still... it is a rather large crowd. "One thing at a time, lady, geez!" Keith says at Monet's telepathic pointers. Slowly, some bits of the JubJub Bird begin to crawl towards each other on the ground, perhaps unobserved amidst all the commotion. But not all pieces move... and, what is interesting, some of the 'maids' are sluggish, a few are even completely immobile, being left behind by the more active peers. Even the air around the Hatter seems less improbable, less warped. The woman held by Thor starts to moan slowly, as the effects of the beverage seem to be wearing off... Mortal woman held carefully, delicately, to his side. Thor's attention moves on to the next 'threat'. That large teapot and doormouse. He can't summon lightning to him then redirect it out. Such an attack would kill the mortal in his one armed embrace. He can, however, throw Mjolnir. And throw the mallet he does, seeking to shatter the teapot and flatten the doormouse in the same attack. His right hand remains outstretched after the throw, eyes tracking where the reli flies so that he can begin to recall it after it hits (or misses) his intended target. Monet may be the most perfect human alive, but everyone must experience the frustration of wrangling mice someday. A giant mouse attempting to wrangle her is merely a more challenging permutation. The mutant is taken in scrabbly, clawed paws, leaving the old man to his own plots. The two go feet over tail in the air as they struggle. A spray of blood, a hiss--and then a tremendous crack. The dormouse's head snaps back. No one expects a fashionista to have a mean uppercut. She drives the beast to the ground--her second punch is anticipated, and the monster eagerly gulps down her forearm. Monet does not care. She grins like she has fangs, and then rips its tongue out. Her arm is bare, but unharmed. "Ouch, now that's just a little excessive..." Keith says, watching Monet tear the Dormouse's tongue out while he delivers a swing with a purple baseball bat upside a centipede-maid's head. Mjolnir impacts the teapot and sends porcelain flying everywhere. But more importantly, it also impacts the Dormouse. It is not a good thing to be smacked by the Hammer of the God of Thunder, and mice have a long history of not getting along. The divine hammer passes through the Dormouse, but no entrails are left behind... instead, glowing purple light bursts forth, trailing tendrils of energy that dissipate into the air. Purple light and energy, not unlike some of the manifestations that accompany a certain Cheshire cat. The similarity is not lost on him, and it distracts him long enough that a few claws manage to draw blood. And blood is what the Dormouse manages to draw from Monet St. Croix as its muzzle clamps down on her arm after its tongue is torn out. This time, the teeth are different. Everything about this rapidly-unraveling creature is different, as if reality is having a hard time holding on to its definition of what it is altogether. Its teeth... fangs... whatever they are seem Unreal. Where they bite, they tear and harm regardless of toughness, and it hurts just as much as the talons that tore into divine flesh. The Unreality of Wonderland is an affront to What Is, to Order itself, and young Monet's skin is its victim. It will draw blood, and cause a deep wound (though not so deep as to be unrepairable)... and yes, just like Thor's wound, it will start to heal. But slowly, just as his is, even with regenerating factors. There is so much Wrongness with what this creature is that the laws of reality have to strain to function properly. Fortunately for the heroes, however, Mjolnir's divine origins seem to be as much of an affront to the creature as its nature is to everything else. The wound opened by the Thunder-hammer does not close, and the energy keeps leaking out. And with each second, the Dormouse becomes more and more translucent, more insubstantial. As do the army of maids as well. The stalls, however, remain trapping civilians, but they are but mere wood and cannot resist the strength of an immortal, easy pickings for Thor. As for the Mad Hatter, well... "N-No, N-no!" he cries, stepping back quickly as his Unreal aura starts to decrease until it is but a little hint around him. "N-no!" Thor recalls Mjolnir to his hand, shifting his position so the relic smashes through a few of the vendor stalls on its way back toward him. He seeks to his the stalls up high, above what is head-height for the average mortal. He can't see through walls, so he has to hope. All the while, Thor carefully holds the human woman to his side, and when the Asgardian artifact is returned to him, Thor begins physically bashing the sides of the stalls nearest to him, ignoring hte blood that still pours from those open wounds in his right shoulder, muscling through the pain of weilding weapon and strength through torn and complaining flesh. Really, it's a very good thing there is a mortal in his arms, otherwise the pain and surrealism of the afternoon could have dropped Thor close to Warrior's Madness. Monet hovers above the half-slain dormouse, holding her fleshy prize in a blood-soaked hand. She stares at the jagged, deep wounds in her arm--the cut flesh, the torn muscles. If his fangs bit more deeply on the other side, she would not have the strength to lift the tongue as she is. Blood drips from her knuckles to the dirt below. The mutant lands, her eyes fixed straight ahead. Her pupils are unfocused; she is experiencing this situation and considering the proper course of action. It's not every day she is bleeding out and can't count on her healing factor. An invisible band of iron compresses just below her shoulder. Monet grimaces, letting out the barest of grunts as she applies the telekinetic tourniquet. "Tch--" She staggers forward. Even now, her heels are a part of her. Her glare fixes on the old man. "Stop stuttering." And then, all at once, she forces herself into the chaotic void that is his mind--she is not there as a tourist. Monet is there as a conquistadora. There is no recognizable land, but the second she finds something remotely recognizable--she builds on it. If she doesn't, she forces a mathematical thought-seed of her own. She is an intelligent woman and appreciates a tidy house. Bringing order to chaos is just a matter of putting things in their proper boxes. Keith winces, holding his own bleeding arm. He tries to dodge another claw... but the claws pass through him. Slowly, very slowly the maids become transluscent as well. The stalls surrender to Thor's bashing without any resistance whatsoever, and normalcy is restored to the world as the holes close up, giving no impression that they were ever there. The Dormouse fades into nothingness rather quickly after that, and all that is left to indicate that any of this ever happened (outside of the property damage) is the small man. The small man whose mind Monet is trying to conquer. He lets out a high, piercing cackle as the young woman enters his mind. She is certainly bright, and she is incredibly talented... but this is not a man. It merely wears the semblance of one. This is an entity from another dimension who eats equations and formulas for breakfast, right after believing seven impossible things and making them happen. Even as Monet begins to seed methods of logic into the creature's minds, those very thoughts seem to fall into the swirling maelstrom that is its thought. Mathematics may seem to be a sound weapon against a creature of Chaos and irrationality, but one must remember that Pi, after all, is a thoroughly irrational mathematical constant. The hatter's 'mind', or whatever it is, absorbs Monet's thoughts eagerly enough, only to spew them back at her... but oddly changed, unreasonably so. Proportions don't make sense, constants seem to shift and change at whim and all decimal representations seem to stretch into a never-ending string towards infinity. It isn't hard to seee what the Hatter is doing... Monet has reached out into insanity, and now insanity is trying to reach back, using her own thoughts to corrupt her mind and her sanity. It has latched on hard, and it won't let go. Wonderland likes to spread. However, the contact is broken almost immediately as the little man seems to slowly sink into the ground. It is hard to notice at first, but a hole has opened up under him. "NO! NO! I WAS SO CLOSE!" A harsh, gurgling female voice with the cutting quality of a knife snarls through the hole, "ENOUGH! You have failed, We will judge you now." Whatever is about to happen is clearly very unpleasant, because the Hatter frantically claws at the earth before suddenly being pulled down through the hole in the matter of a second, and then the hole closes down without a trace after him. And thus, all traces of Wonderland disappear. Even the traces in Monet's mind, which came so close to touching infectious insanity, are gone since the touch was brief. But it will prove helpful information for her and other telepaths associated with her to know that contact with the mind is something to avoid, if another one of these creatures appears. "What the.... what the hell?" Keith says, holding his bleeding arm and looking around. Only once normalcity is restored does Thor take a moment to gently lay the woman down in the shade of a destroyed stall. The fingers of his left hand brush against her cheeks briefly, assuring himself that she lives, before the Thunderer stands and steps through the wreckage toward Keith. Blood runs down his right arm, coating his hand, threatening to make the handle of hte relic slick, too slick to hold. Thor is used to this, battle wounds and pain, that he grimly, stalwartly, pushes through it. "We have won this day, my friend. But thou art sound in questioning this occurrance. This was unlike any sorcery I have ever seen," says Thor, eyes sweeping about the tea-market. A telepath is not inherently a kamikaze. There are ways of segmenting one's mind, of creating selves and rooms and walls. Monet has seen the best. She has seen a thing of chaos incarnate bound by a person's will, orchestrated and executed by mortal minds. Monet doesn't forget anything. She remembers how it was bound. She is not sure how it was made, but she can guess. She's been guessing a lot since then. When the insanity comes, Monet's mind is an architect's dream. It is a fortress that will never be built, an impossible edifice to the concept of defense. Wonderland fills the moat and spill through the bars of the gate. Monet pours thoughtkilling tar from the murderholes. Wonderland breaches the courtyard. It is one of many, filled with eager soldiers who will sell themselves dearly. "Come then," Monet murmurs, eyes wide, hair blowing in a telekinetic breeze. The Pale Man will come for her one day. Her own Phoenix. This can't kill her. If it does, all the shame. Wonderland slaughters the fresh-faced recruits and kicks down a door--wrong one. It's back to the moat. Through the gate again, and the tar-- Then it's gone. Monet exhales, shaking, and lifts her chin. She is once again aware that she is standing in a lot with a bleeding arm. There is no old man. The mutant glances toward the only other two people standing. It's more important to get to a hospital. She turns and touches off from the ground, mangled arm cradled in her now-bloody sweater. Vorpal, or Keith, shakes a little. The implications of what happened, and the similarities he observed, disturb him visibly. Off in the distance, Patrick can be seen helping civilians evacuate the area... and Keith knows he'll be at that for a few hours until everybody is accounted for, evacuated and comforted. He doesn't want to talk about what he saw. Not now, at least. "Y-yeah, very strange... c'mon... let's get out of here... I need to get myself something to drink. Probably with alcohol in it. If you've got that mead stuff back at your apartment... I'm going to need a swig." "Aye," intones Thor, offering the feline his good left arm as means of transport. Thor will, of course, offer to swing by Patrick to let Keith's beloved know where the Thunderer has taken the feline. Anything less would be rude. And then there's the fact that Keith looks shaken, and not just injured shaken. Something happened to his friend, the jovial cat, that has Thor worried for him. A drink and some company should do him well, hopes the Prince of Asgard. "I shall pour for thee, and tend thy wounds. It is the least that should be done for a friend," Thor adds. Category:Log